


Trollhunter (The Norwegian Film) x Ishmael Jones Crossover

by LyrebirdArvo



Category: Ishmael Jones Series - Simon R. Green, Trolljegeren | TrollHunter (2010)
Genre: Buzzed Rough Consent, Crack Crossover, Hans Respects Women But Not Himself, Ishmael Implied To Have A Sugar Daddy, M/M, Mild Language, Misogyny, No Editing Just As Satan Intended, Penny Is There And Bi, Regrettable Decisions in Writing This, Vague Fucking, it was a dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyrebirdArvo/pseuds/LyrebirdArvo
Summary: This is a venture in hubris.Edit: This will apparently show up in searches for the animated show Trollhunters, about the one kid with the amulet deal going on. This is not for that, don't worry about it
Relationships: Hans/Ishmael
Kudos: 2





	Trollhunter (The Norwegian Film) x Ishmael Jones Crossover

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Rolling Tomes. Eat my ass while I forget I did this.

He was an alien.

I was a man with notoriously bad taste.

He had a thing for bears. The gruff, short-toned, authoritative kind.

I didn't so much have a thing for people as I did have a penchant for shooting myself in the foot repeatedly, then stabbing the spot several more times for good measure.

Our jobs were what brought our paths across each other. We both worked the same field, just in different ways. Different means and different ends, but we both kept things hidden.

His was more because the thing kept him alive. Mine was just a 9-to-5 that paid for gas and compensated, however poorly, for the fact that I did what I do.

But definitely not enough compensation for knowing  _ him. _

It started one night. Or, maybe it was still evening. The sun was taking an unsettling long amount of time to set, and that alone had already put me on edge. So, when I heard an engine pull up and a knock on the door of my camper, it didn't take me long to answer.

_ Haugen, again. At this hour. ‘Course he would. ‘Course he would. Too early, just can’t be arsed to account for anyone’s schedule but his own. _

But it wasn’t Haugen. The man on the other side was unremarkable by comparison. Unassuming, forgettable. Young. Maybe still in his twenties. Looked British. I would’ve pegged him for a tourist, between the beat-up rental car and the ratty clothes, but those didn’t usually end up this far out.

His posture was too confident for him to be lost, too, unless he just wasn’t admitting it. Which was possible.

I only kept the door half open.

“What?”

“I heard there were trolls around here.”

Definitely a voice from some whereabouts of England. His Norsk was competent but rough, and it matched how he was so brazenly tactless. So completely without any kind of sense.

More confusingly, arousing.

“Did you, now.”

“You’re Hans, unless I’m at the  _ wrong  _ trailer in the middle of nowhere. My people talked to your people. You know how these things go.”

_ ‘My people.’  _ The TSS didn’t really  _ talk. _ But it meant I hadn’t been completely wrong about Haugen.

“I didn’t get a call.”

“That sounds like their problem.”

I grunted -  _ Probably  _ \- and glanced around him, eyeing the car he came in on.

His companion waved to me from the passenger's seat, cheery, before resettling into a stone-cold neutrality. I caught the glint of a knife ticking against her finger nails, working like a metronome as she watched the man in my door.

“Who's that there?”

“Her? My partner. I had her wait in the car. Fragile.” He leaned forward, like he was telling me some kind of secret. “You know how women are.”

It was such a jarring display of toxic masculinity, with a careless kind of possession that reminded me more of overgrown trolls than a well-adjusted person. He, then, probably wasn't the second. I understood the knife much better.

“I expect to-”

“Not tonight,” I cut in. “I’m busy.”

His lips pulled into a tight, forced smile. “I know. Much as I hate to degrade myself to your ‘service’, we’re on this one together.”

_ Devil help me. _

He thrust out a hand. “So, Jones. Ishmael Jones.”

I didn’t take it.

* * *

"- I don't even know where my space ship is buried."

It was fascinating. I'd never been so uninterested by someone so outlandish. 

The exhaustion wasn’t helping my irritability. The past two nights had been hell. My beard was stuck with twigs, scrapes covered everywhere I could reach - with some places I couldn’t - and I hadn’t gotten a good day’s rest since he showed up. 

Not even those film students had botched things that badly, and one of  _ those  _ had gotten himself killed. Not to mention what happened to the others. 

The man was just an incompetent menace. 

And then him opening up about this ‘alien’ nonsense, despite the constant insistence that he was too  _ private, _ too  _ cautious  _ to out himself. He spoke of trophy hunters often enough, but I could think of several more immediate reasons for why someone might want to put lead through his temple.

We had a window booth in one of the roadside restaurants I usually hit on my circuit around the country. Dreary pancakes and cold mashed potatoes aside, it was fine. Quiet. Usually good for unwinding. But all of that was dashed all to hell right now.

The woman - Penny, who I’d learned was both under appreciated and underestimated - was having a much better time at the booth, judging by the hushed tones and quick exchanges of finger touches between her and the waitress. 

I shuffled mash around the plate with my fork, but he didn’t take it as a sign to stop being a bothersome brat.

“- We tend to do more along the lines of  _ government _ work, you understand. Nothing too fancy. A man on the run does what he needs to do to get by. So when the Colonel -”

He’d talked about this Colonel plenty. Always with a certain tone. Restrained, like he was on the edge of something. Teasing, but completely un-self-aware. The way he would say  _ ‘He’s worth it’ _ about the way he would slight the man didn’t help. Pushing buttons to see how far he could toe the line before punishment. How he would be denied what should really be basic occupation tools, but given gifts in exchange for that punishment.

_ Trolls are simple. They eat. Drink. Fuck, when they get involved and feel it. _

_ They have a better idea of things, half the time. _

I caught myself thinking of better things his lips could be busy with.

* * *

Ishmael trudged through the shallow water ahead of me, the moonlight giving him a fractured reflection in the water that I followed more than the body it came from. 

Penny hadn’t joined us tonight. She was too smart for that. He’d crashed my land rover, broken half of the UV lights, and had nearly been eaten while trying to mouth off to a Dovregubben.

_ Should’ve let her have at him, _ slurred the voice in the back of my head. I took another swig from my hip flask. I wasn’t drunk yet, but I planned to be by the time we found a place where I had service. 

_ Have to call Haugen. Let the man have it. _

_ Been doing this shit too long. _

I entertained the more bitter thoughts swirling around me, until I realized Ishmael had hung back so we were walking side to side. He pointed at my flask.

“Don’t supposed that’s G-and-T?”

_ ‘G-and-T’. Nobody calls it that. _

“Aquavit.” I shoved it into his hands, hard, before he could start complaining about how I wasn’t sharing.

I watched him take a gulp, the way his bare neck bobbed on the swallow, then how his nose wrinkled and his face contorted. It was one thing too many.

My fists snatched the front of his jacket, hard enough that I felt his feet scrabbling to find the brookbed again, and drug him in close. The flask hit the water with an audible splash. I bit down on each word, my nose shoved hard against his.

“If. You. Don’t  _ like _ it. Then go  _ home.” _

His demeanor changed so rapidly that I almost dropped him again. He went, for lack of a better word, pliable. Almost limp, his breath short and shallow.

“... What’s that smell?”

I heard my teeth crack. “Tried to tell you when you barged in the  _ first _ night, complaining about it.”

“What is it?”

“Troll musk. Made of whatever you can squeeze out of them. Hides the scent-”

I  _ did _ drop him then, when he slid free of the coat, but he didn’t make a run for it. What he did do was get to his knees, without a damn for the water soaking his jeans, and look up.

A few seconds of debate was all I gave myself. I tossed his jacket off to the bank and took his short hair between my fingers.

“Fine, if you want it that damn bad.”

He was swift with it. Zipper down, fabric shoved aside. Lips, tongue, lips, more. For all his posturing, he was good enough. I twisted my fingers around more, cinching him closer, and snarled on the exhale.

“This what you do with that handler of yours, that it?”

He made a noise, different from the others, and his eyes flickered. 

“You piss him off  _ just _ enough, just enough to- Enough to get- Then you just reap in the benefits. Get them good and- Good and rough, isn’t it?”

He redoubled his effort, as tactlessly blunt as he was when he spoke.

I shuddered, wrenched him off, reined him by the hair to where his jacket had landed, and shoved him down hard against it. He wriggled in anticipation, one foot kicking back like he was  _ almost _ pretending to fight. 

Two of my fingers ran against the hem of his pants, pulled them back tight, then ran them further down when I felt him fumble to get his belt off. 

I gave myself a last chance; a few more seconds of debate.

Yes. It was his bad decision feeding my bad taste.

Haugen could wait.


End file.
